“Nothing will happen to her, she’s too smart,” commented Mrs. Page.
They took their departure shortly. Mrs. Bryce ordered the cook to hold back dinner. Then she let her vexation grow. It was outrageous that this little pest should upset things so completely. She had been especially anxious to impress this Mr. Christiansen, whom she had recently met. He was a distinguished littérateur and critic, as well as a stunning giant of a man. The white lace gown had been entirely for his benefit. And yet because of Isabelle he had been critical of her. Man-like he had convictions about woman’s job. He probably thought she should have been running around the country, in hysterics, looking for her chee-ild.
At nine o’clock she heard the motor come to the door. She went into the hall. Ann got out first and helped Wally. He was carrying the heroine—asleep, in the utter relaxation of tired babyhood. She was dirty, and her best hat dangled from its elastic, crushed and dusty.
“Well,” remarked Mrs. Bryce, “where was she?”
“I’ll take her up to the bedroom, Miss Barnes,” Wally said, and he started off.
“Really, Wally, Miss Barnes can certainly manage to get her to bed,” protested Mrs. Bryce.
“She’s rather heavy. I’ll just——”
“Put her down and let her walk then. I’ve waited for my dinner as long as I intend to.”
Wally went on upstairs with his burden, and as Ann passed Mrs. Bryce her scorn and hatred of that lace-clad lady was as obvious as a spoken word. Mrs. Bryce went to the table and ordered her dinner. When Wally joined her he looked “all in.”